Low Pressure

Chapter 4

Dent fumbled for his ringing cell phone, squinted at the caller ID, and answered with a snarl. “Are you kidding me? Two mornings in a row?”

“Get your ass out here.”

Gall hung up without saying anything more, which wasn’t like him. He lived to argue. He reveled in arguing with Dent. Something was up.

Dent threw off the sheet and repeated the procedure of the day before, except that he didn’t shave and substituted a chambray cowboy shirt for the white shirt and necktie. He was out the door within five minutes.

In under twenty he got to the airfield, where Gall was inside the hangar, standing beside Dent’s airplane. His hands were planted on his hips and the soggy cigar was getting a workout between chomping teeth.

As Dent walked toward him, Gall motioned with disgust toward the aircraft, but Dent had seen the damage the moment he got out of his car. The cockpit windshield had been cracked. There were dents as large as softballs in the fuselage. The tires had been punctured. A blade on one of the propellers had been bent. The worst of it were the gashes cut into the top of each wing, like they’d been taken to with a giant can opener.

He made a slow circuit of the aircraft, surveying the vicious handiwork, his outrage mounting. When he rejoined Gall he had to unclench his jaw to ask, “Mechanical?”

“I haven’t checked anything yet. Thought I ought to leave it as it is till the insurance man sees it. Called the sheriff’s office, too. They’re sending somebody out. The wings alone, or the propeller by itself, either one would ground you for a spell. But both…”

Dent looked at him.

He shrugged, saying ruefully, “A month, at least. Probably longer.”

Dent swore elaborately. To him this wasn’t just an airplane. Or just his livelihood. This was his life. If he’d been attacked with a hammer and sharp blade he couldn’t have felt it any more personally. “How’d he get in?”

“Used bolt cutters on the padlock. I’ve been meaning to replace it with one of the newer kind, but, you know… never got around to it.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Gall. You didn’t do this. If I ever get my hands on the person or persons who did—”

“Promise to save me a piece of the son of a bitch.” He tossed his cigar into the fifty-gallon oil drum that served as a trash can. “Here comes Johnny Law.”

The next hour and a half were spent with the investigating deputy, who seemed capable enough, but Dent could tell this crime wasn’t going to get top priority when it came to detective work. The deputy’s questioning implied that the vandalism was retaliation for which Dent was responsible.

“You have any unpaid debts, Mr. Carter?”

“No.”

“I’m not talking MasterCard. A bookie, maybe? Loan—”

“No.”

“Any enemies? Been in any arguments lately? Got on anybody’s fighting side? Know of any grudges against you?”

“No.”

He looked Dent up and down as though unconvinced of that, but, discouraged by Dent’s scowl, he didn’t press it. He began directing questions to Gall while Dent joined the insurance adjuster, who’d arrived shortly after the deputy.

Stiff, starched, and buttoned up, the kind of corporate team player Dent despised, the adjuster asked a lot of questions, most of which Dent thought were unnecessary or stupid. He made a lot of notes, took a lot of pictures, and filled out a lot of forms, which he snapped into his briefcase with annoying efficiency but not one word of commiseration.

“They’ll cheat me,” Dent said to Gall as the guy drove away. “You watch.”

“Well, I’ll hike up the cost of parts and repairs, so it’ll even out.”

Dent smiled grimly, grateful that he had at least one ally who understood how deeply this affected him, and not only financially. He didn’t have a wife or kids, not even a pet. The airplane was his baby, the love of his life.

“Go over her with a fine-toothed comb. I’ll check back later for the prognosis.”

He headed for his car but Gall stopped him. “Hold your horses. Come into the office for a minute.”

“What for?”

“You haven’t had your coffee yet.”

“How can you tell?”

Gall just snorted and ambled toward the cubicle, motioning with his arm for Dent to follow. He was eager to get away but knew that Gall felt bad about the flimsy padlock. He could spare him a few minutes.

He filled a chipped and stained mug with the industrial-strength brew, carried it into the office, and took a seat in the chair facing the desk, being mindful of its unreliable back leg.

“I know what you told the deputy,” Gall said. “Now tell me if you have any idea who did this.” He was avoiding eye contact and tugging on his long earlobe, a sure sign that he was leaving something left unsaid.

“What’s on your mind?”

Gall unwrapped a fresh cigar and anchored it in the corner of his mouth. “Before I left my house this morning, I saw her on TV. Early, early show. They said it was a prerecorded interview.”

Dent didn’t say anything.

“The book she wrote… Low Pressure?”

“Yeah.”

The older man sighed heavily. “Yeah.”

Dent sipped his coffee.

Gall shifted his cigar around, then said, “I didn’t know anything about it, or I never would’ve scheduled that charter. You know that, don’t you?”

“Don’t beat yourself up, Gall. I would have found out about the book sooner or later. In fact she said she didn’t know how I’d missed hearing about it.”

“Nice of you to let me off the hook,” the older man said, “but I could kick myself into next month for not hanging up on her when she called me wanting to book a flight with you.” After a pause, he asked, “You read the damn thing?”

“Most of it. Skimmed the rest.”

“Does it tell the whole story?”

“Pretty close. The ending is ambiguous.” Dent paused a beat. “Just like the true story.”

“It wasn’t ambiguous to my way of thinking,” Gall grumbled.

“You know what I mean.”

Gall nodded, his expression grim. “No wonder you looked ready to kill her when you tore out of here last night. Did you catch her?”

“I did, but it didn’t go quite as planned.” Dent described what he’d found at Bellamy’s house. “The bastard had used a pair of her underwear to paint the words on the wall.”

“Jesus.” Gall pushed the fingers of both hands through his sparse hair. “You think that was an intentional reference?”

Dent frowned his answer and caught the look Gall darted toward his damaged airplane. “Right. Her house. My plane. Same night. It would be a real stretch to think that’s a coincidence.” He set his empty coffee cup on the desk and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“To talk to her about this.”

“Dent—”

“I know what you’re going to say. Save your breath.”

“I told you eighteen years ago to stay away from that Lyston girl. You didn’t listen.”

“This is a different Lyston girl.”

“Who’s apparently just as poisonous as her big sister.”

“That’s what I’m going to talk to her about.”

Bellamy’s heart leaped when her cell phone rang. She’d kept it within reach all night as well as this morning, dreading a call from Olivia but at the same time eager to get an update. “Hello?”

“Where are you?”

“Who is this?”

He didn’t deign to respond.

“What do you want, Dent?”

“My airplane came under attack last night.”

“What?”

“Where are you?”

“Daddy’s office.”

“I’ll be there in under half an hour. I’m coming in, and I’m coming up, and don’t even think about denying me entrance.” He disconnected.

Lyston Electronics was housed in a glassy seven-story building that was one of a group of contemporary buildings comprising a business park off the MoPac. Their communications products were high-tech and highly coveted, so everyone who worked there wore an identification badge, and security was tight.

Bellamy called the guard in the lobby and made arrangements for Dent to be admitted. “Please direct him to my father’s office.”

Twenty minutes later he was ushered in by her father’s receptionist, whom Bellamy dismissed with a nod of thanks. She remained seated behind the desk while Dent gave the large room a leisurely survey, his gaze stopping on the mounted elk head and on a glass cabinet in which her father’s collection of priceless jade carvings was displayed. He took particular notice of the family portrait that dominated one paneled wall. He walked over to it and studied it at length.

The photograph had been taken during the last Christmas season that the family was intact. Posed in front of an enormous twinkling Christmas tree was Howard, looking every inch the proud patriarch. Olivia, gorgeous in burgundy velvet and canary diamonds, had her arm linked with his. Steven, a recalcitrant fourteen-year-old, had his hands jammed into the pockets of his gray flannel slacks. Susan was sitting on the Oriental rug in front of the others, her full skirt spread around her. She was smiling broadly, confident of her beauty and allure. Bellamy was beside her, unsmiling because of her braces, virtually hiding behind the black Scottish terrier she was holding in her lap.

Dent turned to face her. “What happened to the dog? Scooter?”

“He lived to be thirteen.”

“Your brother? What’s he doing now?”

“Technically Steven is my stepbrother. I was ten, he was twelve, Susan was fourteen when Daddy and Olivia married. Anyway, Steven left Austin after he graduated from high school. Went to college back east and stayed there.”

All he said in response to that was an indifferent huh.

“What did you mean by ‘my airplane came under attack’?”

He walked toward the desk, then sat—sprawled, really—in one of the chairs facing it, seemingly unaware of or not caring how out of place he looked wearing jeans and a western shirt with the tail out when the dress code for the executive offices called for a jacket and tie.

But then he’d always had a very casual regard for rules.

He linked his fingers and rested his hands on his stomach. “What part didn’t you understand?”

“Cut the crap, Dent. Tell me what happened to your airplane.”

“Somebody broke into the hangar last night and beat it all to hell.” He described the damage. “That’s what we can tell just by looking. Gall hasn’t checked out the systems yet.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“You’re sorry, but I’m grounded. Grounded means no charters. Which means no income. To you… Hell, you probably don’t even understand the concept.”

His scorn smarted, because the truth of it was that she had never suffered a financial setback. In her family, money had never been a problem.

“The bank isn’t going to suspend my payments while the airplane is being fixed. I’ll be making payments on a plane I can’t fly. That is until I run out of money completely and can’t make the payments anymore, and then they’ll come and get it. If they repossess my airplane, I’m grounded for good. So your being sorry isn’t of much help, is it?”

“I deeply regret this. I do. I know you need the work.”

He focused on her sharply, then laughed drily and turned his head away. But when he looked at her again his eyes were smoky with anger. “So. You checked me out. Discovered that I’m barely scraping by. Took pity. Was that what yesterday was? You threw poor ol’ Dent a bone?”

“I told you why I contacted you.”

He continued to look at her in that searing way until she relented.

“All right, yes. I’d read that the airline released you after the incident.”

“Wrong. I walked after the incident.”

“Pension? Benefits?”

“Had to be sacrificed when I told them to shove it.” He pulled in his long legs and sat forward. “But we’re not going to talk about my financial woes right now. What we’re going to talk about is why somebody vandalized my airplane after breaking into your house and painting a warning on your bedroom wall.”

“What makes you think the two are related?”

He gave her another hard look.

“It’s strange, I’ll admit.”

“No, A.k.a. Let me tell you what’s strange. Strange is that when I got to your house last night, you were scared silly. Petrified, in fact. But you wouldn’t hear of calling the police. That’s strange. And don’t give me shit about publicity, not when you admit to going on TV and hawking your book. Gall saw a prerecorded interview this morning.”

“I didn’t want the publicity,” she exclaimed. She told him about Rocky Van Durbin and EyeSpy. “Ever since he printed my name and picture in that rag, and announced that my novel was based on fact, I haven’t had a moment’s peace. I didn’t want the notoriety.”

“Oh, come now,” he scoffed. “It helps sell books, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t deny that book sales increased dramatically once I got out there and began promoting it. I’ve cultivated a lot of fans.”

“And one enemy.”

She stood up quickly and stepped from behind the desk to move to the window. For several moments, she watched the traffic zipping past on the freeway, then turned back into the room. Dent’s gaze was fixed on her as she went over to the leather sofa beneath the family Christmas portrait and sat down.

His eyes narrowed, and he said softly, “You know who the bad guy is.”

“No, I don’t. I swear I don’t. If I did, don’t you think I would have done something before now to stop it?”

“Stop it? Stop what? Something happened before last night? What? When?”

“It’s not your problem, Dent.”

“Like hell it’s not.” He got up from the chair in which he’d been sitting and dragged it over to the sofa, planting it directly in front of her then solidly planting himself in the chair. He propped his forearms on his wide-spread knees and leaned toward her. “Somebody did a bad number on my airplane. That makes it my problem.”

“I hate that I involved you.”

“Yeah. So do I.”

She sighed. “Truly. I’m sorry. I understand why you’re angry. You have every right to be. If I had it to do over—”

“But you don’t. I’m involved, and by God I’m gonna find out who did the deed, and when I do, I’m not going to depend on the law of the land to punish the bastard. I’m going to see to it myself. Now, tell me what’s going on.”

She felt trapped by him but realized he wasn’t going to let it go until she gave him more information. She also realized what a relief it would be finally to tell someone what she’d been experiencing for the past several weeks.

“It started in New York.” She ran her damp palms up and down the tops of her thighs, drying the moisture on the fabric of her slacks. When she noticed Dent watching, following the motion with interest, she curled her hands into fists and folded her arms across her middle.

Her body language wasn’t lost on him. “Scared of me?”

“No.”

He studied her face for a moment, then asked her what had happened in New York.

In stops and starts, she told him about the gift-wrapped box that had been delivered to her apartment building. “A dead rat was horrifying. But when I saw its tail move and realized it was alive…” Even now, thinking about it caused her to shudder. Dent stood up. Hands on hips, he walked a tight circle and ran his hand across the back of his neck. “What kind of sick—” He broke off and muttered a stream of profanity.

“I didn’t even pack,” she said. “I fled. That’s the only word for it. I grabbed my handbag and rushed out of the apartment. I stopped in the lobby of my building only long enough to ask the concierge about the delivery. He hadn’t noted a company name, hadn’t seen a truck. Just a ‘man in a uniform and a Yankees ball cap.’

“He couldn’t describe him in any more detail than that. I told him he needed to get a pest exterminator for my apartment, told him I would be away indefinitely, then hailed a taxi to the airport and left on the first flight I could get on.

“I called Dexter, my agent, from the taxi, and told him to cancel all my scheduled appearances and interviews. I had to hang up with him still sputtering reasons why I was crazy to abandon the tidal wave of publicity. I haven’t granted an interview since. I’ve dodged the local media. Eventually reporters stopped trying to contact me.” She shrugged. “They gave up. Other stories came along. I don’t care. I’m just glad to be out of the limelight.”

Dent processed all that. “Okay, you came scuttling back to Austin. Showing up unexpectedly like you did, your dad and stepmom must’ve thought it was weird. Did you tell them about the rat?”

“No. And they were surprised by my decision to leave New York for a while. Even more surprised when I rented the Georgetown house my second day back. I was a bit surprised by that myself,” she added thoughtfully. “I told them I was tired of the city and needed a break. They didn’t ask for a further explanation, because they know the real reason. That I want to be here and close to Daddy until he dies. But it’s better for all of us that I have my own place.”

She got up and went to a bar built into the opposite wall. “Water?”

“Sure.”

She carried a bottle to him and uncapped one for herself as she returned to her place on the sofa. Dent sat back down in the chair. “How long ago was this?”

“Three weeks, give or take. When I left New York, I thought I was leaving behind a stalker. For lack of a better word. Someone who bore a grudge, or someone I’d unintentionally slighted.”

When she paused, he leaned forward again. “But?”

She chafed her arms. “But I’ve often got the feeling that I’m being watched. Followed. At first I passed it off. The rat incident had put all these melodramatic scenarios in my head, made me jittery, paranoid. Then, about a week ago, someone broke into my car while I was in the supermarket. Nothing was taken, but I almost wish something had been.”

“Maybe the would-be thief was interrupted. He popped the door lock but got scared and ran off.”

She shook her head. “He got into the car. I sensed it immediately. The interior smelled like sweat. BO.” It made her nauseous to think about it even now.

Dent frowned. “He only wanted to violate your space. Spook you.”

“Which is more sinister than a theft.”

He sat back in the chair and took several swallows of water. As he replaced the bottle cap he asked, “No idea who this smelly creep is?”

“No. But as you said last night, it must be someone who dislikes my book. Intensely.” She looked away but was unable to hide her guilty expression.

“Oh, I get it now,” he said, drawing the words out. “You thought it was me. That’s why you booked the charter. All that bullshit about wanting to see how I had fared was just that. Bullshit. You wanted to see if I was your evil prankster.”

“Dent, I—”

“Save it,” he said angrily, coming out of the chair. “No wonder you fold up like a daylily every time I get too close. You’re afraid I’m about to pounce.” He gave her a scathing look. “Just for the record, I haven’t been to New York lately. I wouldn’t touch a rat, dead or alive. Most days I shower and use deodorant, and I sure as hell couldn’t have been in two places at once yesterday. I was in Houston with you, not back here in your bedroom. And if my hands are ever on your panties, believe me, it won’t be for painting.”

She felt the heat rising in her cheeks and cursed her tendency to blush.

A long silence ensued while waves of anger radiated off him. Finally she said quietly, “Are you finished?”

“More to the point, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Here.” He gestured to encompass the room. “Are you finished with what you came to do?”

“Yes,” she replied, somewhat warily. “Why?”

He reached down and encircled her biceps with his hand, pulling her up off the sofa. “The people who’d be upset over your book is a short list. I want to go back to your house, see it in daylight, see if we can pick up a clue to identify the villain.”

Bellamy put up token resistance, but actually that was what she had intended to do without him, so she let herself be propelled from the office. Once they were inside the elevator, he asked if she’d had an update from Houston and when she told him no, he said that was probably good news.

The banal conversation got them through the awkward confinement and to the ground level.

Outside, the sun was so bright it momentarily blinded her, so she didn’t see Rocky Van Durbin until he was standing directly in her path.

“Hello, Ms. Price. Long time no see.” He smirked at her, then gave Dent a slow once-over. Hitching his head toward him, he asked her, “Who’s the cowboy?”

“Who’s the asshole?”